incessantly, softly
by frozen-delight
Summary: Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat. [Post-Reichenbach return "Mystery-Spot"-style. Because returning from the dead or being stuck in a time loop isn't already angsty enough in itself. Not S3-compliant. Sherlock/John]


**Title:** incessantly, softly  
><strong>Author:<strong> frozen_delight  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Teen  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Sherlock (BBC)  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Sherlock/John  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Major character death. Angst.  
><strong>Word count:<strong> ~ 2800  
><strong>Status:<strong> Complete  
><strong>Beta:<strong> Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** _Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat._

**A/N:** Post-Reichenbach return _Mystery-Spot_-style. Because returning from the dead or being stuck in a time loop isn't already angsty enough in itself. Not S3-compliant.

For **cherrytide**, who induced me quite spontaneously to finish and post this today.

* * *

><p><strong>incessantly, softly<strong>

Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat.

The fridge buzzes and the faint noises of construction work come up from the street. Otherwise, it's quiet.

A glance at his phone informs him that it's Monday, 7th April 2014. There are six new voicemails waiting for him, all from John. He doesn't listen to them.

Instead, he goes into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. While the water starts boiling, he rummages through the cupboards, but he can't find any tea. He calls for Mrs Hudson. There's no reply.

He pours the hot water into a cup nonetheless. He doesn't drink it, though.

He sits down in front of his microscope and chemistry set at the kitchen table, but everything's broken and useless. He stares at his science equipment for a minute, disturbed. He can't remember how it got broken. And then he thinks suddenly: _Didn't Mrs Hudson give it all away?_

Shrugging, he goes back into the living room and curls up on the sofa. He doesn't know how much time passes. When the clock strikes four, there are footsteps on the stairs, a tired limp. A moment later John enters the room.

His face is pinched and worn as he stares at Sherlock. 'I watched the press conference last night,' he says, his voice tight, and Sherlock remembers how John stormed off in the afternoon, after they'd captured Moran. He remembers John yelling he'd never forgive him, before. He remembers the flare of hatred in John's usually so kind blue eyes. That was bad. Then it gave way to a look of utter, apathetic emptiness, and that was even worse.

Shaking off the unpleasant memories, Sherlock nods, feeling relieved that John now knows everything there is to know. He doesn't want to speak of the time he was away – not now he's home and John is here. If only John would stop looking so tired and stupidly, supinely composed. If only John would smile.

Apparently, John can read his thoughts, because he huffs out a humourless laugh. 'Sherlock, I don't know _anything_. You disappeared. I thought… you were dead.' His voice shakes. 'I saw you jump. And all your clever tricks don't explain that.' He takes a deep breath and continues in a slightly calmer manner, 'I don't get it. You have to tell me, Sherlock… because I simply don't get it.'

Sherlock wants to call John an idiot and lay out all the facts of his survival with clinical, cold reason. Yet somehow he, who usually makes a living of rationally stringing together various odd bits and pieces into a perfectly logical explanation, doesn't know where to start. 'I didn't know you'd be so affected…' he begins uncertainly.

'You didn't know I'd be so affected?' John bursts out. 'What the hell is wrong with you? You didn't think I'd grieve for you? You didn't think I'd miss you? Every bloody day?'

Sherlock stares helplessly at him and somehow that only increases John's irritation. Suddenly, his angry white face is mere inches from where Sherlock's still reclining on the sofa. 'Sherlock, we lived together. We worked together. You were my best friend. You were _everything_ –'

Before Sherlock knows what's happening, John crushes their lips together. With teeth and tongue he forces his way inside and plunders Sherlock's mouth. It's overwhelming. It's surreal. It's glorious. John tastes of tea and hobnobs.

Feeling like he's drowning, Sherlock clutches at every bit of John he can reach, and kisses back.

Things move quickly after that. There's John's warm fingers digging into his thigh, and John's cock pulsing in his hand, and John repeating his name over and over, like it's the most precious word in the English language. Then Sherlock curls up against him, calm, content, sated. He closes his eyes and listens to the thrum of John's heartbeat. Idly, he wonders why they never did that before.

John runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls in a gentle, steady motion, completely unlike the passion that consumed them only moments before. 'We've got to talk,' he whispers softly. 'Sleep now, if you want to. But we've still got to talk, okay, Sherlock?'

Sherlock smiles against John's chest and drifts off.

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'Bloody Hell, what? Buy your own milk, you tosser… And fuck you.'

~SH~

Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat. John must have left some time after Sherlock fell asleep. His absence is disquieting. Sherlock sincerely hopes that John hasn't decided to have a sexual identity crisis. Now's really not the time.

He wants to talk to John, but he realises that he has no idea where John lives these days. He calls for Mrs Hudson, because surely she knows, but there's no reply.

So he curls up on the sofa and waits.

At four o'clock, there are footsteps on the stairs. When he enters the flat, John looks as tired and worn as he did the day before, and Sherlock's heart sinks. As soon as John opens his mouth, Sherlock's anxiety picks up a notch, because John's obviously determined to ignore everything that passed between them the previous day and sullenly demands an explanation for Sherlock's faked suicide.

'John, stop!' Sherlock interrupts him, because he has to make John _see_. It shouldn't be so hard. 'You love me.'

John gapes at him.

'I know you love me,' Sherlock says again, and before he can add anything else, John's fist collides with his face. With his nose, to be exact. _Somebody loves you_, he can hear The Woman murmur in his head. Clearly not right now.

'Fuck you, Sherlock!' John grinds out furiously. 'You don't get to do that to me – you don't –'

Without completing the sentence, he storms out of the flat.

Dragging himself up from the sofa, Sherlock positions himself by the window and watches his friend hurry down the street. He keeps watching, even long after John has disappeared. The street is quiet and empty, just like the flat.

Exhausted, Sherlock sinks down on the sofa. Out of a whim, he picks up his phone. It tells him that he's got six voicemails from John. It tells him that it's Monday, 7th April 2014.

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'Sorry. It's good to hear your voicemail greeting again. Even though it's still bloody rude, you know? Anyway, I'd like to talk, so call me when you get this.'

~SH~

Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat.

Having a better brain than most, it doesn't take him long to figure out he's stuck in a time loop. Having a better brain than most, he also realises that such a thing is impossible. He can't come up with any rational explanation, no matter how improbable. He might have been able to beat Moriarty and destroy his web of crime, but somehow can't solve this absurd little case. He can't break the time loop.

Maybe because he doesn't try hard enough.

Obviously, he observes all the patterns to his eternal Monday. The empty flat. The six voicemails from John that he never listens to. John's visit each day at four o'clock. Occasionally he tries to vary them.

More often than not, though, he doesn't.

The problem is: Sherlock remembers every detail of the night he spent with John. How John kissed him. How they jerked each other off. How John petted his hair afterwards. How John whispered that he loved him.

And he really, really wants to relive that part of the day.

John doesn't. _Remember_. _Want him_.

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'Dammit, I didn't want to do this over the phone. Where are you? I said some stuff earlier I shouldn't have. So can we talk, please? Call me back when you get this.'

~SH~

Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat and waits for John.

When it's four, John finally appears. 'You bastard, how could you do that to me?' he snarls, interrupting Sherlock's stream of inept explanations. 'I don't want to hear anything, you hear me? I don't care what you have to say. _I don't care_.'

Sherlock stares at him and doesn't say, 'You kissed me once, you just don't remember.'

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'Are you ignoring me on purpose? You've done enough of that already, don't you think?... Sorry. It's just a bit much… but I'm trying. So call me. And don't do anything stupid.'

~SH~

Each day, Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat and a John who hates him. Each day, he has to apologise and explain to John afresh. Each day, he has to try again to win back his old life. He never succeeds.

It's wearying.

He doesn't want to tell John about the snipers again and again. They were horrible enough to deal with. They're gone now. Sherlock shouldn't have to keep talking about them.

On one day, he merely says, 'Moriarty had to be stopped.' John stares at him, bewildered and disappointed. 'I could have helped, Sherlock.'

On another day, he says, 'You're a terrible liar, John.' 'Well thank God at least one of us has no trouble with lying,' John retorts sarcastically and marches out of the flat, banging the door shut behind him.

Then there's one time where he says, 'I underestimated Jim. Moriarty, I mean.' John simply says, 'Yeah, you did.' It doesn't sound very friendly. Sherlock feels like he wants to despair.

After that, there's one occasion where he finds it impossible to say anything. He feels like he's exhausted every possible explanation and yet he's never been able to make John understand.

'I'm sorry, I can't, I just can't…' he mumbles, half-frantically, expecting John to get up and leave any second. 'It's all such a mess… I don't know, I just can't… I missed you,' he finally blurts out, the last thing he'd been meaning to say.

John looks at him and swallows audibly. 'For what it's worth,' he replies in a low voice, 'I missed you too.' Then he goes to the kitchen and makes Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock doesn't know where he found the tea and doesn't ask. 'Drink that,' John orders, not unkindly, when he comes back to the living room where Sherlock's numbly been waiting for him. 'And then we're going to try and make sense of this together, okay? Just so you know, I'm bloody angry at you and you really owe me an explanation, there's no way I'm going to let you off the hook just like that. But I guess I also owe you a bit of assistance, I mean I know you, so there. Okay?'

This is the best thing that has happened since that first memorable night. The next day, it's all gone. That's when Sherlock actually despairs.

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'…Sherlock… I never even told you how glad I was to have you back…'

~SH~

Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat and repents.

If he believed in a higher power outside of his own brain, he'd probably consider this the payback for making John believe he was dead for almost two years.

For the first time he questions his big plan. 'Maybe there was another way,' he tells John that afternoon.

'But you couldn't think of anything else at the time, could you?' John asks him, face and voice neutral.

'No,' Sherlock answers unhappily and bites his lip.

'Then there was no other way,' John states calmly and leaves.

Sherlock stares at the empty doorway and thinks of all the things he wanted that he'll never experience now. The feel of John's lips around his cock. The look on John's face when he wakes up. Going undercover at the Royal Ballet to revel in John's wide-eyed expression when he finds out that Sherlock can dance, and not just around a puzzle or a corpse. Preparing John coffee just how he likes it. Raising bees and making John fall in love with his honey. Taking John to his mother's house in France.

John comes back some time later bearing a bag full of takeaway. He hands Sherlock a box with Chicken Tikka Masala and a tissue. Belatedly, Sherlock notices that he's been crying.

'You won't remember any of this tomorrow,' he says thickly. 'You'll never forgive me.'

John looks at him thoughtfully over his own steaming curry. 'I'm sorry, I need a bit of time, Sherlock. But why don't you start by forgiving yourself?'

The day is over and begins anew before Sherlock can find an answer to that.

~SH~

'_This is the mailbox of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. If you've got an interesting crime to report, leave a message. If you don't, commit one and contact me again later. If you're John: Bring milk._'

'Sherlock? … Call me … Please.'

~SH~

On the morning of the 37th Monday, Sherlock wakes up to an empty flat and once again stares at the broken chemistry set on the kitchen table. He thinks, _But Mrs Hudson gave it to a school_. It bothers him enough that he decides to speak to Mycroft.

'You're going to think I've lost my mind, but I haven't. I'm stuck in a time loop,' Sherlock announces as soon as he barges into his brother's office.

Mycroft looks up from whatever file he's perusing with a mildly interested expression. 'Pray continue, brother dear.'

Sherlock feels a rush of gratitude and relief. 'Today is the 37th time that I've woken up on Monday, 7th April 2014.'

Levelly, Mycroft gazes at him. 'Interesting. Do you remember what happened yesterday?'

'I moved back into 221B. Mrs Hudson almost had a heart attack when I revealed myself to her. Lestrade and John helped me arrest Moran. John was angry that I'd made him think I was dead. He … left. Lestrade and I held a press conference where we made public my return. You were there.'

Mycroft purses his lips. 'Your glorious return from the dead,' he drawls a little contemptuously. 'I'm surprised you managed to make it past the throng of excited reporters camped outside Baker Street.'

'There were no reporters,' Sherlock answers automatically, and then frowns at his brother. Why were there no reporters? Why was the street so quiet except for the distant sounds of construction work?

Suddenly, he also notices all the other oddities of his 37 Mondays. 'No Mrs Hudson… no Lestrade… the chemistry set…' he mutters to himself. Then he looks up at his brother, shocked. 'You aren't real. None of this is real.'

Mycroft inclines his head. The gesture is patient, and almost kind. 'What do you remember, Sherlock? What really happened yesterday?'

A flash of wheels appears in front of his inner eye, accompanied by a violent screeching of tyres.

'A car crash,' he murmurs. 'There was a car crash.' He swallows hard. 'I never made it to the press conference.'

'In all likelihood, you're at a hospital right now, hovering between life and death,' Mycroft adds helpfully. 'Hence the time loop quixotry.'

'So what happens now?' Sherlock asks his brother, feeling five again.

To his surprise, Mycroft takes out a handkerchief from the pocket of his bespoke suit jacket and wipes his eyes. 'Now that you've figured it out, I can only assume… Sherlock, I never once intended your return to be like this.' Mycroft gulps. 'I will miss you, little brother, and I will always regret –'

But Sherlock doesn't hear his brother out and rushes out of the office. There's no way he'll die of something so mundane, when not even the criminal mastermind of the century managed to kill him. He runs all the way back to the flat. He needs to speak to John. John needs to know. John can help him. John is a doctor. John will know what to do.

Out of breath he collapses on the sofa.

It's four o'clock.

John isn't there.

And just like that Sherlock knows that John won't come, not again, not ever.

He takes out his phone, dials his mailbox and presses _play_.

~SH~

'Sherlock, fuck, finally! I've been calling you for ag–'

'John?'

'…Greg! Where's Sherlock? What's happening?'

'There's been an accident.'

~SH~

John Watson blinks the tears away and slowly pushes open the door to an empty flat. It's Monday, 7th April 2014.

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><p>Thanks for reading.<p> 


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